


Late Last Night

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Midsomer Murders - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bars and Pubs, Closeted Character, Getting Together, John Barnaby's cooking, M/M, Nelson is a constable in Midsomer, Sort Of, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25148521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Nelson smiles at him; a lopsided, brief quirk of the lips which nonetheless feels warm enough. “So you’re heading undercover and need tutelage in how to assimilate with the gay community.”No humour, none of the flirting he could have got away with to break the tension. Somehow the lack of it is disappointing. Because he’s gorgeous, a small voice insists. And he’s taken one look at you and shifted firmly into professional mode.
Relationships: Ben Jones/Charlie Nelson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is... an incredibly self-indulgent fic. Writing about two characters who (to my knowledge, although I haven't seen all episodes) never even met. It's trope-y fluff, and I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Chapters 2 and 3 are already written, just need proofing, so will be posted within the next few days.

###  Wednesday 

“I thought you’d be right keen for a bit of undercover work.” Ben doesn’t look up, but he shrugs, and there’s a slight hitch in Barnaby’s breathing that says he’s thinking through his next words carefully. “I should have asked. I… didn’t realise it would be a problem.”

Oh  _ hell _ . He’s going to have to say something, but what? Unfortunately, silence will just leave his superior officer with the impression he’s a homophobic jerk, which is pretty much the last thing he wants. 

“It’s not that,” he says quickly, and when he raises his head, Barnaby is staring straight at him, one brow arched. “I just don’t know…” he trails off, not sure himself where that sentence was going, but there’s something like understanding dawning on Barnaby’s face.

“Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Well no matter, I’m sure we can find someone to give you a few pointers. I’ve heard they are just people, though, with many of the same behaviours as you and me.”

He smiles weakly at the teasing. One crisis averted, but now Barnaby thinks he’s worrying about how to act at a gay club. Probably thinks he’s panicking about leather trousers and mesh shirts, and whether he’ll have to drink fruity cocktails instead of beer, like he’s some kind of stereotype-steeped throwback. He’s not sure of the best way to explain - without coming right out and  _ explaining _ \- that he’s not so much worried about sticking out, as fitting in  _ too much _ .

He’s not in the closet. He tells himself that a lot, and sometimes it feels like a lie, but sometimes he knows it’s true. But it would be a stretch to say he was out; his gran knows but no one at work does, because he has no interest in becoming some kind of poster boy for the new, tolerant face of the police. While it’s nowhere near as bad as it used to be, with its new regulations and committees and representation, it’s not exactly a haven either. Besides, he’s always subscribed to the notion that really, his private life is no one else's business. It’s not like straight people have to announce themselves. Until - or if - he meets someone, it’s not a consideration.

He’s been surprised how well that tactic has worked, if he’s honest. He’s the age where most people are settling down, and some are already several kids deep, but there are few comments about why he’s never with anyone. He wonders if it’s growing up in the area - there are enough people still dotted about that remember him dating Emma, or the indiscretions with Poppy after Emma dumped him for a ticket out of Midsomer on the back of a Harley Davison. And he still clicks with women - enough to enjoy their company and conversation over a few drinks - but he’s always careful to slip away before they get too invested, leaving it as just a nice evening out for everyone. 

Guess it’s true no one is that interested in anyone but themselves.

“I’ll ask around,” Barnaby promises, and then the phone goes and by the look on his face it’s Sarah, so Ben makes himself scarce fetching coffee.

  
****

###  Thursday

He’d booked a meeting room as soon as Barnaby gave him a name - DC Nelson, apparently something to do with the station’s LGBT group - and a time: Thursday at three. It would have felt odd to take over Barnaby’s office, but neither did he fancy having this conversation at his desk, in full view of the rest of the team.

The meeting room is empty when he arrives, and he steps in, shutting the door securely and running his hand over his head. God, he’s actually  _ nervous _ , which is all kinds of ridiculous. He’s a seasoned police officer. He holds difficult conversations for a living, and now he’s stressing out about meeting the kid Barnaby has dredged up who is - quite unnecessarily - going to give him some kind of queer eye treatment.

There’s a polite knock on the door, but it swings open without waiting for an answer to show a lanky silhouette. That must be the kid.

It’s probably unfair to keep calling him a kid though, even in his head. Because when DC Nelson steps forwards, he’s got to be in his mid twenties and wears his work clothes with a casual confidence that says he’s not fresh from uniform. He’s also - and this isn’t exaggeration in the slightest - gorgeous. Soft-looking brown hair, blue eyes, and six foot plus to boot. Why the hell have they decided to send him undercover, when they could send this Nelson instead and he’d have everyone eating out the palm of his hand?

Rank, he tells himself. And the fact he’s not even on this case.

Nelson smiles at him; a lopsided, brief quirk of the lips which nonetheless feels warm enough. Ben waves him in, overly formal, and they both take a seat.

“So you’re heading undercover and need tutelage in how to assimilate with the gay community.”

No humour, none of the flirting he could have got away with to break the tension. Somehow the lack of it is disappointing. 

Because he’s gorgeous, a small voice insists. And he’s taken one look at you and shifted firmly into professional mode.

It’s… maybe been a bit too long since he last made the time to sate his baser needs.

“Yes,” he answers, hoping it hasn’t been too lengthy a pause. 

“Well, as the LGBT liaison I suppose you’ve come to the right person.” He steeples his fingers, studying, and Ben fixes his gaze on the little patch of skin between his eyebrows rather than meeting those blue eyes head on. Nelson sits back. “You fancy a coffee?”

He gets up without waiting for a response, striding over to the pot in the corner. Who knows how long it’s been there, but Nelson ekes out the dregs into two mugs branded with a local Indian restaurant, and shakes a creamer packet. Ben nods, and catches it when it’s thrown at him. Nelson brings the mugs back to the table, but leans against the counter instead of sitting back down. He crosses his arms. 

Ben doctors his coffee and takes a swig; it’s awful - over brewed, acrid, and barely lukewarm.

“So what’s the job?”

“Reconnaissance.” Here, at least, he’s on safer ground. “Three victims so far, and all of them have ties to the club. One went for her hen night, another has a brother who goes weekly, usually Saturdays. They’d both been out before they disappeared, still had alcohol in their system, but witness reports were ropey and they were found miles away from town. The last body discovered was the bartender. He’s what makes us think this is the link.”

“Bit weak for the other two though.”

He grimaces. “Hence the subterfuge, instead of heading in with badges and warrant cards.”

“So they don’t know you’re police.”

“Barnaby questioned the manager and the other bartender while I was following up a different lead.” 

“Which club?”

“The Drop.”

He nods like he knows it, which thinking about it, he probably does. Causton doesn’t exactly have a vast array of options. The Drop is a few streets over from the main drag, and as much as a club can be, fairly tame. They don’t get called out to stabbings or overdoses in the toilets, although it has its fair share of drunken misbehaviour come kicking out time.

“DCI Barnaby said you needed help, but he didn’t specify what. So what is it?” He takes a slurp of his own coffee, grimaces, and abandons it on the side. “Not sure what to wear? How to act? Worried guys will come on to you? Because they probably will.”

He says it so casually that Ben’s not sure if he means they will because there’s always a few desperate chancers in clubs, or because he’s someone worth coming on to. The flip in his stomach hopes for the latter; his brain admits it’s more likely the former.

“Yeah, what to - what to wear, I suppose.”

He’s always been happiest in suits. Making DC and getting out of uniform - it was a turning point. Suits make him look his best; they make use of his frame, and he’s comfortable in them. T-shirts and jeans, on the other hand - things most people his age like to live in - make him feel prematurely old, a middle-aged man playing at being young.

“Give me your address then.” Nelson hands over his own notebook, and Ben opens it to find neatly written notes on various cases. He flips to the first blank page. “When are you going under?”

“Tonight.” He hands the notebook back.

“I’ll pop round at nine.” He smiles again, but this time is bigger, brighter, and accompanied by a slap on the shoulder. “Don’t look so worried, I’m sure you’ll have something suitable.”

-

By eight thirty, he’s showered and shaved with teeth brushed, and standing in a dressing gown in the middle of his bedroom. Laid out on the bed is his usual ‘fancy’ outfit; a deep burgundy shirt and a pair of dark jeans. Both are old but rarely worn, so still good enough to count as making an effort.

But he said he needed Nelson to tell him what to wear. Maybe he should just throw on some joggers and a t-shirt?

The thought of opening the door to Nelson - who no doubt rolls out of bed looking like some kind of model - in his oldest, rattiest clothes, has him dropping the towelling robe and pulling on the shirt and trousers. His hair is about dry, so he tousles it gently with the pot of product that sits under the sink and rarely sees daylight. It’s… well, it looks like him. But he  _ doesn’t  _ look like he’s about to head into an office, so all things considered, it’s probably not a bad job.

The doorbell chimes, making him break his gaze in the mirror. “Show time.”

He knows who it is, but even so he double takes when the door swings wide. Gone is the smart-casual shirt and jumper combo which makes him look approachable and dependable. Instead, the DC Nelson on his doorstep is most assuredly off-duty; jeans, t-shirt and a leather jacket which unfairly works for him and leaves him looking more like James Dean than a try hard wannabe. 

“I brought glitter.”

“What?”

“Joke,” Nelson says slowly. “Are you going to let me in?”

He steps back, and they head through his house. It’s nothing special - just a terrace on the outskirts of Causton centre, and getting a parking space on the road outside is a nightmare for someone who keeps the hours he does. The kitchen and living room are separated by an open arch, and Nelson pokes his head through before settling on the sofa. 

“So you don’t really need my advice, then.”

“What?” 

He points at Ben’s outfit. 

“Oh. Is this okay?”

“Yeah, suits you.” There’s that silly stomach flip again. Nelson bends and roots in the rucksack he’s dropped at his feet, before surfacing with a bottle. “I knew you wouldn't be drinking at the club, so thought you might want a nip of dutch courage.”

It sounds good enough that he really shouldn’t. He shakes his head, but ducks into the kitchen and finds a glass for Nelson before falling onto the sofa. 

“So what’s really bothering you? Because it clearly wasn’t what to wear.”

There’s no real way to say that he’d just given his boss the wrong idea and there was no way back from it. Or to say that he planned to hold that first meeting and brush Nelson off with a few pleasantries. That the plan went awry when Nelson turned up looking like that, and invited himself round to his house. That the temptation to see him outside of work was too easy to give in to.

Stupid. Nelson is too young for him, too attractive, too complicated - and above and beyond all that, he thinks Ben is straight.

“Just a bit apprehensive, I suppose. It happens with all undercover ops.” 

Nelson smiles, and tilts his glass towards him before taking a mouthful. “This is my first one.”

“Oh, you’re on this op are you?” he teases.

“Getting paid to hang out in a superior’s house and prep him for it, so yeah, I reckon I am.”

“Getting paid?” Ben reaches over and pilfers the glass. “So you shouldn't be drinking either, then?” Nelson’s mouth drops open, and Ben grins and steals a mouthful of whiskey. It’s not great stuff, but the initial sting mellows to a smoother burn and leaves his lips pleasantly tingly. This is a whiskey to get drunk on, the perfect balm to soothe nerves and blunt sharp edges until it would feel like a good idea to lay Nelson back, stretch out on his sofa, and taste it from another tongue.

He hands the half-full glass back. “No refills.”

Nelson rolls his eyes, but tips the rest of the whiskey back and sets the glass decisively on the side table. He spreads his hands, open, as if to prove the lack of any further alcohol about his person. “So then.”

Ben sighs.

“Anything in particular making you apprehensive?”

“Are you always this…” he’s not sure how to put it. The only word springing to mind is pernickety, but he’d rather not turn into his gran right now.

“Yes,” Nelson responds with a grin. “You’re a sergeant, you know how to hold a conversation while getting information out of people, and that’s all this is. But in a tighter shirt.”

So he noticed, then. He didn’t think it was  _ tight _ tight, just a bit more fitted than his usual work shirts. But maybe he’s put on weight - he’s at the age where that can start happening, unnoticed, and police work doesn’t leave a lot of time for a healthy lifestyle. When was the last time he even played cricket? He shifts. Perhaps he should change -

He stills at the hand laid gently on his arm before retreating.

“Is it being hit on?” Nelson doesn’t wait for a response. “It’s okay - I mean, it’s normal. I guess you’re used to being the hitee most of the time, and have worked out strategies to deflect unwanted female attention? Honestly the same will probably work, but I guess you can’t just tell people to sod off if you need to find out what they know first.” He clicks his fingers. “We should practice. I’ll hit on you, and you can work out if I’m the murderer without losing your virtue, and then how to get rid of me. Then you just follow the steps later on.”

Ben groans. Having Nelson get up close and personal sounds like a terrible idea. “I don’t need - besides, I should probably get going -”

“No one goes to a club at half past nine.” Nelson points out annoyingly, standing and offering a hand. Ben takes it, and finds himself hauled from the sofa cushions with surprising strength. Nelson’s hand is pleasantly warm. He drops it quickly. “Better to get your awkwardness out now.”

“This from your extensive experience in the undercover field.”

“Maybe not, but I do have extensive experience of being awkward around guys, and it took a bit of practice to turn that into charm.”

He can’t help a snort; both at the winning, sarcastic smile Nelson delivers and the idea that this man has ever needed to work at attracting a partner. 

“I guess this is weird,” Nelson comments, flicking his finger between the two of them. It takes a second to realise he means the height difference, the way Ben has to tilt his head back a little to maintain eye contact when they stand close. He moves away before Ben can answer, which is probably a good thing because all that’s running through his mind is that he quite likes it, actually. Nelson picks up his empty glass and slouches against one of the kitchen cupboards. “I’m at the bar.”

“Of course.”

“You haven’t got music, have you?”

“Mmm, somewhere.” He roots around the sofa cushions and finds the HiFi remote. When he clicks it on, the radio is playing best of the eighties - not exactly club music, but it still adds to the realism when he turns around to find Nelson inches away. 

“Hey.”

His act - well it’s good, the guy could probably have a side hobby in amateur dramatics if he wanted, he’d be a shoo-in for leading man - but underneath the sudden loose-limbed grace of someone more than half a whiskey down and on the prowl, there’s still a spark of familiarity. That says maybe this  _ is  _ Nelson, just Nelson after hours.

“I’m Charlie.”

Ben realises he doesn’t even know if that’s real or fake.

“Uh, Ben.”

“Buy me a drink?”

He wants to laugh at that - is this all a ploy to get the DS to allow the DC another whiskey? He lets a little chuckle free, enough to appear friendly without directly laughing at - Charlie - and collects the bottle. He tips out a frugal measure.

“Not joining me?”

“Not a whiskey man,” he responds, before nipping into the kitchen and filling a glass from the tap. He returns, and clinks it against Nelson’s tumbler. “Gin and tonic.” 

Nelson laughs - and he’s pretty sure that was Nelson, not Charlie - before he finds himself relieved of the glass, and two warm hands encircling his own. “Let’s dance.”

“Oh no, I don’t dance.”

“Sure you do.” 

His hands are placed on warm hips, just at the juncture where t-shirt meets denim. It’s an invitation to slip underneath, or it would be if this were real. He pulls free, and gestures back to the kitchen. “I prefer to talk than dance.”

Nelson smiles and ducks his head, somehow managing to look through his lashes despite his extra inches. “All right. I bet you’ve got plenty interesting to say.”

It’s distracting, is what it is, but he manages to conduct a halfway decent interrogation under the guise of a casual getting to know you flirtation, and it is easier the more used to it he gets, so maybe it wasn’t such a bad plan after all. He just about manages to ignore the heat of Nelson as they stand hip to hip where he usually shuffles about in slippers making toast. He almost manages not to notice the way he bites his lip, and makes suggestive comments, and runs his fingertips along Ben’s forearm where his shirtsleeve is rolled up.

Who’s he kidding? He doesn’t manage that at all.

“Okay, so I’m convinced you’re not a murderer.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Nelson says, sarcastically breathy, before dropping the act with a snort. “Dissuade me then, because we’ve been chatting for a while, you’ve bought me a drink, and I’m thinking I’m in here.”

He kind of is. It’s distressingly easy to flirt with the DC, and he only hopes Nelson has come to the conclusion he’s a better actor than he is. “This has been great,” he tries with a smile, “but I should get going. I don’t want to lead you on… I’ve got a boyfriend.” His intonation rises at the end, making the statement into an awkward question. Nelson shakes his head. 

“No one’ll care, not if you’ve been talking for this long.” He strokes lightly down the buttons of Ben’s shirt, making him trip backwards into the counter. “Sorry,” Nelson says, and takes his hand away. “Too much. But it’s true, unless your ‘boyfriend’ starts breathing down their neck, they’ll just try and talk you round. Going clubbing and chatting up random guys suggests you can be convinced into forgetting about him.”

“Well what, then?” It’s not an issue he usually has - he’s not exactly fighting them off with a stick, and those he’s not interested in he just doesn’t engage at all. 

Nelson picks up Ben’s glass, and takes a swig before setting it back on the counter. He pats him on the arm, and then leans in to speak into his ear. “Look after that for me, will you? My friend is just making the worst mistake, I’ll be right back-” he half jogs away, weaving like he’s dodging around dancers, and then spins to hold his arms out. “Disappear into the crowd. Bonus, you’re not actually drinking everything you order.”

“It’s that easy.”

Nelson shrugs. “Can be. And I mean if anyone follows you or won’t get the message, you could always try kissing them really badly.”

He laughs. “Is that a tried and tested technique?”

“I’ve never kissed anyone badly in my life. Not even Maria Porter in year nine.”

Ben grins, and - wait. They’re flirting again, but not in character this time, they’re flirting as  _ themselves _ . “Right, good,” he says, spinning and putting their glasses in the sink. Somehow it’s almost half ten; still a little early, perhaps, but by the time he walks over people will be arriving, and he really should maximise the time he has. “I should get going.”

“‘Course, yeah.” Nelson swings into his leather jacket, discarded for realism earlier on as it would have been too hot for the club scene. “Are you feeling okay about it?”

“Fine,” he promises.

“Good. Oh, wait.” Nelson wheels round in the doorway, so that Ben has to step back if he doesn’t want them plastered together again. “Give me your phone.”

It’s a testament to how on the back foot he feels that he hands it over without question. Nelson taps for a few seconds, then there’s a chirp from his own pocket. “Now you have my number. If you… I don’t know, if you find yourself freaking out in the toilets and need someone to talk you down. Although actually, maybe you’d better just avoid the toilets. If you freak out, go to the smoking area.”

He steals his phone back. “I have been to a club before.”

“Just been a while?”

“All right DC Nelson,” he says, shouldering them both out the door. He’s aware it’s a weak comeback, resorting to pulling rank, but another minute stood on the threshold with that teasing smirk in his face and he was liable to drag them both back inside and say to hell with the investigation.

It really has been too long, if he’s thinking like that. Maybe when this is all over, he’ll have to head back to The Drop off duty.

\--

It’s not an overly successful night. That was partly intentional; Thursday is student night in Causton, and The Drop isn’t a student place. They’d expected it to be quiet; it gave him a chance to feel out his character and scope the lay of the land. Still, part of him had hoped to have some form of lead come out of it.

He stays until kick out - until the music dies and drunken punters blink blearily in the sudden switch on of the lights. It’s one AM. When was he last out this late?

The temptation to stop in for a kebab is strong, but the thought of his usual half seven wake-up call has his feet heading straight for home instead. He peels out of his sweaty shirt in the bathroom, and decides to have a rinse off tonight instead of waiting for the morning. He only changed his sheets two days ago, and the thought of crawling into them as he is is mildly repulsive.

He lets the water pound over him, forehead on the cool tiles, and relaxes his muscles in the heat. He’s discounted a couple of people, at least. And having a clear head after a night in a club is surprisingly pleasant, even if he will have that last song running in circles through his brain for the foreseeable. He hums it as he dries off, slips on pajama bottoms, and crawls into bed.

The minute his head touches the pillow, his phone rings.

“Not another murder, not another murder,” he chants under his breath, sitting up and fumbling for the answer button.

“‘DS Jones.”

“Oh, er - hello, DC Nelson calling.”

He pulls the phone away from his ear; sure enough, the call has flashed up as Charlie Nelson. So that was his real first name. 

“Why are you still awake?” He’s likely got as early a call time as Ben, and yet he sounds strangely chipper despite the late hour. 

“Just… wanted to check it all went alright?”

“In your official role as DS handler on this undercover sting?”

Nelson’s laugh is low and pleasant, and he finds himself slipping back to lie down again. “Something like that.”

“Bit of a bust,” he yawns, rubbing over his eyes before letting them close. “But kind of expected. Tonight was a dry run, basically. I’ll go again tomorrow.” Or tonight, technically. 

“But it was okay.”

He’s beginning to get the impression Nelson is some kind of saint, checking up on the clueless DS in his role as LGBT liaison. He should probably just come out and say there’s no need - but that’ll mean there’s no reason for Nelson to be involved, and he’s too selfish for that. “Virtue still intact. Not even threatened.”

“Well, good.”

Closest it came to being threatened, in fact - not that that’s quite the right word - was in his own kitchen pressed up against the cabinets. He’d have waved goodbye to it quite happily then, packed its bags and shipped it off to join the circus. His eyes snap open. He’s lying in bed, talking to a colleague he’d very much like to roll over, and said colleague is not only a subordinate (of a fashion), but also nothing but professionally concerned.

“Thanks for calling,” he stutters. “But, you know.” He can’t quite bring himself to voice the words - we should go to sleep. It’s late. Time for bed. Every option feels infused with far more than he should say.

“Yeah, I better go. Ugh, I might skip the morning run tomorrow.”

“Right. Um. Night.”

He hangs up, and leans over to plug the phone in. He double checks the alarm, drinks some water, and flicks through his emails quickly - nothing urgent. He lies back. 

It takes a long time to fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

###  Friday

The next morning is a rush, but as he barrels into the office he finds Barnaby picking up his jacket and heading back out. He spins on his heel, but stops at Barnaby’s finger pointing him down into his chair.

“Not you,” he says. “I need you to chase up that ballistics report, and see if Kate has found anything new. Then get on the phone to county records, they were meant to get back to us yesterday and I don’t care if their stuff isn’t fully digitised, it must be catalogued in some way.”

“But-”

“I’m not having you out there running into possible suspects when you’re needed tonight.”

There’s no argument he can make against that, rooted as it is in pure common sense. The only possible rejoinder is a petty whine about being stuck behind a desk, and if he’s going to make Inspector one day he probably should be more mature than that. 

Doesn’t mean he can’t make a few faces while he waits for his computer to boot up. 

The rest of the morning is spent on dogsbody work - ferrying messages back and forth, trawling through databases and deep-diving into various aspects of agricultural legal precedence and land rights, thanks to the crime scene locations, to see if that could have any bearing on this triple murder. Turns out: unlikely. 

The one upside is when he heads down to the canteen; he’s managed to accidentally time his lunch to coincide with Gail. He grabs a jacket potato with tuna and slips into the spare seat across from her. “Hey.”

“Ben!” she grins. “Unlike you to be braving the canteen special.”

“They can’t go too wrong with a jacket potato can they?”

“Mine last week was raw in the middle.” 

He sighs, and pokes at his food. 

She crunches a crisp obnoxiously loudly, before saying, “so tell me about this case of yours.”

“The murders?”

“Yes,” she rolls her eyes. “It’s always murders with you. More exciting than the GBHs we usually end up with. I’d have stayed if you’d got out the way so I could make sergeant.”

“Not much to tell, we’re sort of at a deadlock.”

“But you’re getting some undercover work out of it? That’s exciting.”

He gives up on the potato two bites in - he’s hit the raw centre - and starts scraping tuna off the top. “Does the whole station know about that? Defeats the point of undercover if half of Midsomer and their mothers are in on it.”

“I just have my sources.” She grins at him, and leans closer. “I hear you got a bit of help from DC Nelson.”

His head snaps up. She looks pointedly over his shoulder and he twists. Nelson is at a table of people from robbery, and he realises he never asked what department he sits in. The others are also mostly DCs by the look of it. He knows a few of them by name, but they don’t tend to cross over too much. No one much cares about a missing watch or the contents of a purse when their loved one’s been conked over the head. 

“Yeah, he uh, gave me a bit of advice. What shirt to wear, that kind of thing.”

“Make-up?”

“Make…?” he trials off. “ _ No,  _ not make-up. Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean-”

“No, I know.” She folds her crisp packet into one of those triangles that can be lobbed across a room. “I just don’t get why not, you know. Generally, I mean, why men don’t.” She raises her gaze and squints at him. “You’d look quite good in it, you know. And if I can drink beer and play cricket-”

“You don’t play cricket. Do you?”

“No, but I could. And if I can do that, I don’t get why men can’t wear make-up. Wouldn’t you have liked to cover up your acne as a spotty teenager?”

“Uh, yeah I suppose.”

She shrugs, and thankfully, changes the subject. “Nelson seems nice anyway.”

“Well, we didn’t chat much.”  _ Lie _ , insists his internal voice. You may not have chatted  _ enough _ , but you did spend over an hour together. You know what his aftershave smells like and that he’s got freckles across the bridge of his nose. And he stayed up until the small hours to make sure you were okay after a potentially uncomfortable evening.

“You know he bought me an ice cream once?”

“Mmm?”

“We’d never even spoken, I just knew his face from over there,” she nods at the other table. “It was the weekend, one of the summer fetes - I forget which, they all tend to merge together - and he was at the front of the queue for the van and I was at the back. And then he walked up with a chocolate and a salted caramel and let me have my pick.”

“That is nice.”

“I’d have figured he was flirting if it wasn't for the obvious.”

“He could be bisexual.”

She fixes him with a strange look. “Do you make it a point to be elsewhere during every staff ‘get to know you’ event? He’s gay, he’s pretty open about that. Shame. Always seems to be the best ones. I bet he'd be a good kisser. Gentle…” she seems to realise what she’s saying, and blushes. “But you’d have more chance with him than I would.”

It’s a testament to his years as a police officer that he manages to finish chewing and swallowing his last bite, rather than coughing it up. It’s a little too close to what he’s been trying not to think about for the past fifteen hours, about how maybe he’d like to offer to take up where Maria Porter left off, about how a claim like never having kissed someone badly really needs empirical evidence to back it up, and perhaps he could be an impartial judge.

“Yeah, well.” He covers the awkwardness by gathering his plate and cutlery. “I need to get on to the county records office, so I better go.”

\--

He buries himself in work for the rest of the afternoon, and Barnaby swings by at quarter to five for a debrief. A picture is building, but the leads are increasingly pointing to the murderer having a pretty strong connection to the club, which means he’s definitely going back in tonight. In the meantime, Barnaby sets the tech guys digging out what they can from the victims’ laptops, and they head out together into the summer evening.

“You’re okay going in again?”

“Of course.”

Barnaby leans on his car, keys dangling from one hand. “Then good luck. We really need a break on this one.”

\--

His burgundy shirt is a definite no go, he thinks later that evening, towel wrapped around his waist and hair still dripping down his back. He’d left it crumpled in a ball when he stripped it off, but even if he hadn’t, one whiff says it’s destined for the wash. 

That’s a problem though, because that’s his going out shirt. He never normally goes out two nights in a row. To be strictly accurate, he never normally goes out at all - at least not to places you need to dress up for.

He flips through his wardrobe, and eventually comes up with two options; one a mid-blue, casual fit he’d bought for a holiday way back, and the other slate grey. They’ll both go with the trousers well enough, but he can’t tell which is more club appropriate. He eyes his phone, discarded carelessly on the bed.

No, he can’t call him over. He can’t authorise the overtime for one, and he can’t claim friendship rights after one hour and a drink the man brought himself. But maybe…

He grabs the phone and takes a picture of the two shirts laid out. He taps a quick message;  _ blue or grey? Help out a clueless copper _ . 

The answer is reassuringly quick; _blue._ _Grey is nice but it's more family dinner or work event than club. Sleeves rolled up._

His thumbs hover over the keys, but he can’t think of a witty response and a simple thank you feels too business-like. In the end he drops the phone back on the duvet, pulls on the shirt, and carefully rolls up the sleeves. He towels his hair and goes through the same rigmarole as last night, and by the end of it - well, it’s him again, isn’t it? But in blue instead of burgundy. Before he can think better of it, he takes a silly selfie in the mirror, cheesy grin and a big thumbs up.

The reply takes a little longer to come; long enough that he’s locked his door, wallet and phone in his pocket, so the message vibrates against his leg.

_ You’ll knock them dead. _

\--

Having been once before, he now knows the lay of the land at The Drop. He turns up, edges round the coat check queue, and gets his hand stamped by the doorman. The music is just as loud and generic as last night, but the bar crowd is bigger. He joins the back, and smiles when the man to his left apologies for jostling him.

“No problem. Busy tonight!”

The man laughs. “You new? This is tame, give it an hour and it’ll be eight deep. Get your drinks in now.”

A gap opens up and he darts forward. “Can I tempt you to one? As I’ve just stolen your spot.”

The man looks him up and down; he feels like he’s being appraised like a show pony, or prime cut of beef. When he gets back up to his face, he grins at Ben’s raised eyebrow. “Yeah, alright.”

Turns out the man knows nothing, but it takes most of the way down his lime and soda to get that out of him; he’s not a regular, just in the area visiting family and wanted to blow off steam. He employs Nelson’s trick of a friend making bad decisions, and escapes to the other side of the club, where he manages to talk to two other useless patrons and get himself three quick brush-offs. He’s beginning to wonder if this approach is going to yield them anything at all. It’s scattergun at best; even if he turned up every night for a month he wouldn’t manage to talk to everyone. They’re relying on getting lucky, all while a killer still walks the streets. He leans against a nearby wall, taking a quick breather.

“Hey.”

The word is soft, just on the edge of hearing, and his gaze slips to a man leaning perhaps two feet away. One leg is drawn up, sole of his boot against the wall, and his slouch is calculated, shifting the focus down to his jutted hips. If this wasn’t Causton, which he’s fairly sure doesn't have such things, he’d think him a male prostitute. As it is… just a club regular, perhaps, and therefore someone who knows people. In other words, the perfect person to interview.

He lifts his chin in a quick jerk of recognition. “Hey.”

As expected, the man sidles closer, moving with an easy grace. He’s a little shorter than Ben, blonde hair, maybe late twenties but trying to appear younger. He’s got arresting, pouty lips, and Ben wonders if he chews on them for the effect or if it’s Maybelline. “I’m Joe.”

“Ben.”

“Haven’t seen you around before, Ben.”

Joe turns, letting one hand fall on Ben’s forearm. The touch would barely register, except it’s skin to skin thanks to his rolled sleeves, and Joe drags his fingertips lightly down to the delicate circle of his wrist before grinning and leaning back again. 

“I’m… new in town.”

“Yeah?”

“Few weeks.”

“Where you from?” 

“Ah, that was before,” he says with a smile, hoping it comes off as mysterious rather than evasive. Joe quirks an eyebrow and curves those lips into a smirk, and a thrum of attraction runs through him. “I’m more interested in my new home. This seems like a pretty cool scene-” he mentally winces, he’s pretty sure no one has used that phrase for at least a decade- “but I saw some stuff about a bartender from here that was killed... it sounded pretty horrible. That wasn’t - I mean, it wasn’t anything to do with him being gay, was it? Or working here?”

To his surprise, Joe laughs. He also curls a hand back around his arm, and the contact, for all that it’s an innocent enough touch, lights up every receptor in his skin. “Lance was eye candy but dumb as bricks. He probably just stumbled across something. He was the type to run towards a scream instead of away, you know, self-preservation instincts of a lemming.”

“Oh,” he says, to fill air and because Joe is still looking at him. That’s… Barnaby had said that Lance McCreight seemed an all round good guy, but they hadn’t considered the angle that maybe he was collateral while trying to stop some other crime. He’d been found two days after Melissa Bates, but-

“Don’t worry about it.” Joe strokes soothingly up and down his arm, and twists until he stands between Ben and the rest of the room. He tilts his head back until they catch eyes, and pushes forwards until they press, chest to chest. 

It would be easy. Any other night, he’d go home with Joe.

“Don’t get me wrong, there are some bigots in Midsomer, but we take care of our own, yeah? I’ll protect you.”

He smiles at the idea that he, of all people, needs protection. Still, the sentiment is nice. And Joe is really very warm against his front, and it’s not so far to bend down because Joe is rising up on his tiptoes and - 

He’s bloody  _ pickpocketing _ him!

He grabs Joe’s wrist, pulling it out to reveal his own wallet clutched in long fingers. He snatches it back. “Nice try.” God, what does he do now? He can’t let him go, but he can’t arrest him either - that'll blow his cover entirely and they’ve got bigger fish to fry than -

“Hey! Get your hands off him!”

The punch comes from nowhere. He reacts just quickly enough to drop Joe and duck enough that knuckles hit his brow bone instead of breaking his nose. His head snaps back with the momentum, thudding on the wall. He groans, blinking furiously as his eyes water.

“What the  _ hell _ ?”

“That’s my-”

He doesn't get a chance to find out who the new guy is, or what Joe is, or even where Joe’s gone, because he’s taken the melee as a chance to disappear into the crowd. He doesn't even get a chance to practice his violent offender subduing tactics, because the bouncers are already there, hustling the guy away. 

“Mate,” a hand lands on his shoulder and he jumps, shrugging it off, before realising it’s attached to another of the bouncers; broad shouldered and serious-looking with an unfortunate goatee. He recognises him from the file, but his name isn’t managing to work it’s way out of his shaken brain. “Sorry,” the bouncer adds, stepping back a little with his hands up. “Are you alright?”

His head is throbbing, and he’s somewhat whiplashed from the events of the last minute, but he considers carefully before answering; it’ll do no one any good if he insists he’s fine when he’s concussed, and keels over as soon as he’s alone. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

He nods, wincing when the movement aggravates the thumping building where he smacked into the wall. “Yeah. I mean, a bit battered but I’m good, really.”

The bouncer nods, looking only marginally convinced. “You want some water?”

He thinks about staying; about the other people he might be able to interview, about the music that’s starting to feel like drills into his skull, and shakes his head. “I think I’ll just go home.”

“Come out front, we’ll get you a cab. Have you got a coat?”

A cab. That’s a good call. 

\--

He knows it’s a bad idea, but when he spills into his house - turns out the bouncer had even dug into the cashbox and pre-paid for the cab, he must have looked bad - he can’t face climbing the stairs. It’s barely midnight, and he roots around in the kitchen instead, coming up with crisps and a bottle of dark rum he’s pretty sure is nearing its third year in his cupboard. It needs using.

It’s a terrible idea to forgo a glass, but on the plus side - no washing up.

He finishes the crisps and licks the salt from his fingers, then tears the bag open and licks that too - not like there’s anyone to see or care. He should probably take a look in a mirror, drink some water and go to bed. He takes a third, generous pull on the rum and thumbs at the label. He sighs, and screws the cap back on. 

The bathroom light is always dingy, and the slight rum haze isn’t helping matters. He prods at his eyebrow - there’s a little cut above, but it’s not really bled too much. It’s just tender to the touch and a bit red. Swollen? Maybe he should have dug the peas out the freezer. Bit late for that now.

He turns the shower on, stripping out of his clothes, and thinks - one day, he’ll shower in the morning again, like a normal person. Instead of in the dead of night and again early evening. He hisses as the water hits the cut, and holds himself still under the stream to make sure it’s well flushed out. 

Pajamas. He climbs the stairs to bed and can’t help checking the time on his phone; 12.47. He’s not waiting.

He’s totally waiting. 

He groans, and flings the phone on the bedside table, clicking the lamp off so the only light comes from the glow of it’s blue screen. He won’t call. The first night was above and beyond, he’s not going to check in again on night two. There’s no reason for it. Besides, it’s still early for a club on a Friday night - the doors will be open until two, and no one stays up that late for a colleague they barely know.

Unless… well, Nelson does seem uncommonly nice. If anyone would, it’s probably him. And if he is, he’s waiting up unnecessarily because here he is already home and tucked up in bed.

He should send a text. It’s only polite.

_ Night two not exactly a roaring success. Wish me luck for the Saturday crowd instead. _

He hits send, and fumbles around for the charger. By the time he’s got it plugged in, it rings, and he startles, dropping it on the floor. He rescues it and reads the caller ID: Charlie Nelson.

“Hi,” he says, breathless from his scramble.

“Hi. Bad luck tonight?”

“One or two possible avenues to look into.” He pokes at the pattern on his duvet cover. “Nearly caught a pickpocket.”

Nelson laughs, and just like that he can see the funny side of the whole thing, even as his head still aches. He should have snatched some paracetamol while downstairs; now it’s too much bother, especially with the low rumble of Nelson’s voice in his ear and a warm duvet weighing him down. “Overachiever. Did you bring down a drugs ring on the way home as well?”

“I said nearly, didn’t I? He got away.”

“From a DS? Shame on you.”

“I was distracted.”

There’s a moment of nothing from the other end of the line, just a slight rustle and what might be the in-out of Nelson’s breathing. “By?”

“By the other guy, trying to break my nose.”

“What?!”

“It’s fine,” he reassures him. He’s not sure why he’s even mentioned it - he won’t see Nelson until at least Monday, and chances are it’ll have healed enough to be unnoticeable by then. 

“Let me see.”

“We’re on the phone.”

“Yes, but take a picture-”

“But we’re on the phone-”

“You can take a picture while talking.” A pause. “I’m guessing you don’t know how to do that. Okay, I’ll hang up, send me a picture.”

He opens his mouth to argue - it’s really nothing, no need to get worried about it - but realises the line is already dead. He sighs, turns on the lamp, snaps a picture, and texts it over. The phone rings, and he presses answer.

“Ouch.”

He hums, flicking the lamp off again. Blessed darkness. He really should have picked up that paracetamol. 

“But I think you’ll live.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Doctor Nelson? I’m a little concerned you’re not  _ sure _ I’ll live.”

“Well, head wounds, you have to be careful.” 

He can’t help but laugh, and winces as it sets off his headache again. 

“You’ll look like a right bruiser tomorrow, though.”

“Maybe it’ll help me attract a new crowd of interviewees.”

“The criminals you need to speak to probably  _ are  _ more likely to be attracted to someone who can fight their corner.”

“Are you saying normally I look like I can’t?”

“I just hope you’re going to say ‘you should see the other guy’. Because if you’re not, I consider this a wasted opportunity. You don't know how to milk your injuries for bravado points.”

“Unfortunately, the bouncers hustled him out. But no, it was one lucky punch on his side. I never even touched him.”

“Then why did he hit you?”

“I don’t know… maybe the pickpocketer was his boyfriend? I was interviewing him. I guess it would have looked like something else.” Because it was something else, but he’s not revealing that to anyone if he can help it.

There’s a pause, and when Nelson speaks again it sounds different, closer, like he’s tucked himself away somewhere. “Are you actually okay? I mean, apart from the head wound.”

“Yeah,” he says, around the gentle warmth in his chest. “It’s not the first time I’ve been punched. I used to box.”

“Really? You struck me more as a footballer.”

The shift in conversation reminds him of the time; he twists to see his watch. Gone one AM. He’s not sure he cares. It’s Saturday tomorrow, and this is the easiest conversation he’s had in a long while. “Cricketer, if we’re talking team sports. What about you?”

“Not much of anything, really. Kickabouts, but nothing organised.”

“You said you run?”

“Yeah, every morning. Might skip it again tomorrow though.”

He chuckles. “This case is really running you ragged, isn’t it?”

“You have no idea.”

“I should let you go. You’re not even getting paid for this.”

“I think being paid for late night phone calls is the sort of side-job police officers should stay well clear of.”

The insinuation catches; laid in his bed it’s hard to miss, and his hand twitches on his thigh. He wonders if Nelson is in bed too, if that shift earlier was him getting under the covers, safe and warm, and if it was, what his bedroom looks like. Whether there are clothes thrown haphazardly over a nearby chair, or if he’s a neat freak, everything tidied away before the day is out. He has a feeling this is one of those moments that will stay burned in his memory across the years. They’ve veered too far, inappropriate now, balancing precariously on the edge of flirting if he wants to be charitable. Tipped over and falling if he doesn't, and the buzz of alcohol in his veins makes that seem simple. An easy swan dive into something, even drunk, he knows he’d regret in the morning. 

What’s he doing? It’s the small hours and he’s chatting in the darkness like he misses his lover on some long distance business trip. DC Nelson is his colleague. His subordinate. Who he barely knows, and who probably thinks this is all fine and above board and just a good joke. Because there’s no way DS Jones would ever try anything. He’s straight.

He scrubs a hand over his face, hissing as he accidentally scrapes against the cut. “Sorry,” he says. “Caught the old head wound.”

“You should get some sleep. As long as you’re not concussed!”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t need me to call you a five in the morning to make sure you wake up?”

He’d probably do it as well, and as much to really make sure he was okay as to annoy him at five in the morning. “I’m fine,” he repeats firmly. Boundaries. That’s what’s needed. This? This is not a good idea. He needs to hang up the phone and then - then he needs to take a step back from this. From Nelson. It shouldn’t be hard. Before yesterday he had no idea the guy even existed.

“Okay. Get some rest.”

“Night.”

Maybe the long days and late nights are catching up with him, or maybe it’s the new plan to sort all this out, but within minutes he’s out like a light.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a long final chapter, but there was no good place to split this one ;)

###  Saturday

He wakes up the next morning to his text alert chirping at him; it’s Barnaby, inviting him round for a debrief, a planning session, and a salmon and pomegranate dressing salad. Possibly not in that order. He squints at the light seeping round the curtains. It looks sunny, and that means maybe a beer in the garden too. There are worse places to chat to the boss.

He mooches around for the first hour or so of the day, then fills in time by giving the bathroom a scrub. He gets distracted prodding at the bruise in the mirror; it’s not extensive, but overnight it’s come in darker and there’s no getting around the fact - he looks like he’s been punched in the face.

At midday, he grabs his keys and heads over to the Barnaby household. The bell rouses an indistinct holler; he assumes Sarah is distracted with Sykes and Barnaby with the food. He opens the door.

“Hello?”

“In the kitchen!”

The scene that greets him is familiar, and he feels himself relaxing unconsciously. Barnaby is busy with the food, turned away and hunched over a frying pan with a tea towel slung over one shoulder. He waves awkwardly without turning around. Ben doesn't have the knowledge to ascertain exactly what he’s doing, but there are red splashes across the countertops and a littering of spices, chopping boards and knives dotted over most of the surface. Sarah is out in the garden, and he abandons his jacket before calling out to her.

“Ben!” She greets him with a wave. She comes trotting over, looking back at Sykes who’s too busy with a toy bone to pay any attention to the interloper. “He’s the most useless of guard-” she gasps. “What happened to your face?”

He’s not sure if all women have this tendency, but there’s something of his gran about Sarah right now, in the way her gaze narrows as she grasps his chin and tugs him down, turning his head this way and that. 

“What’s happened to who’s face?”

“Ben’s!”

“Jones?”

Sarah’s grip falters, and he takes the opportunity to straighten and turn. He smiles sheepishly. “Caught a stray fist last night, Sir.”

“Is this that undercover thing?” asks Sarah.

“Yeah, someone just got the wrong-”

She cuts him off, dragging him by the arm back into the house. She pushes him pointedly towards one of the chairs, and he sits. “Did you get it looked at last night?” she asks, peering at it closer now it’s in her eye line.

“I washed it out, it barely even bled.”

She purses her lips. “That’s a no, then.” She stands back, hands on her hips, but then her voice suddenly sharpens. “You weren’t on your own, were you?”

“Of course. It was just a bit of surveillance and chatting to people.”

She tuts, turns away, and roots through a cupboard. When she turns back she’s holding antiseptic. “It’s a bit late, but it won’t hurt.” She pauses. “Well, it might hurt, it’s antiseptic. You know what I mean. Did you at least get what you needed?”

There are rules about discussing cases with outsiders. But then there’s Sarah, who has never quite counted as one. She’s probably heard most of the details from Barnaby already. He winces as she touches the antiseptic to the cut. “No, I’ll have to go back tonight.”

“Well, you better have some back up.”

Barnaby has been quiet, stood to the side watching his wife nurse his sergeant, but at that he jumps in. “Sarah’s right, I should never have sent you in alone.”

“I’m fine, it was just a lucky pu-”

“We’ll find someone to go with you. Better safe than that the budget works out. You work well with Gail, don’t you?”

“Um, John,” interrupts Sarah. “I’m not sure Gail - assuming Gail is female - is the best back up considering the location?”

“Good point.” Barnaby looks down. “Well, I suppose I could -”

Sarah laughs out loud, and stands back with her hands on her hips. “You’re done,” she says, patting Ben on the shoulder and packing away her medical supplies. 

Ben tries to smother his smirk. “I’m not sure you’d fit in, Sir.”

“No?” He holds the wooden spoon out to the side and executes a spin. “I can hold my own on the dance floor.”

“I think your vibes are more dad at the disco than pretty young thing,” Sarah admonishes him, turning away to fetch the wine from the fridge. “Honey,” she adds belatedly, filling his glass extra full in apology and kissing him on the cheek. Barnaby frowns, and points at them both with the spoon.

“Just for that, I’m keeping the good bits of salmon.”

“What about DC Nelson?” 

It takes him a second to realise that was his suggestion; it popped out almost without input from his brain.

“Nelson?” asks Sarah.

“From over in robbery. He’s the station LGBT rep, gave Jones a few pointers about fitting in. You know, that’s not a bad idea…” Barnaby turns and stirs the pan. “He’s a bit green, perhaps?”

“If he’s the LGBT rep it’s not like it’s much of an undercover stretch,” reasons Sarah. 

“No, you’re right Sir. I’ll just go alone-”

“No, DC Nelson is a good choice. He’s already vaguely familiar with the case. And he seemed to have his head screwed on. Unless you thought differently? You talked to him for longer than I did.” 

Longer than Barnaby has any idea about. He could get out of it by saying no, he wasn’t that sharp, but badmouthing Nelson to a superior to save his awkwardness is something he could never do. “He seems like a good officer.” A good officer. Jesus, it’s like he’s swallowed the human resources manual.

“Right, this needs to go in the oven to bake - then I’ll call the station and get his contact number. Let’s hope he’s not decided on a weekend away.”

“Actually sir…” He pulls his phone from his pocket and waves it slightly. “I have his number right here. He gave it to me in case I… needed it,” he finishes lamely. Luckily, Barnaby doesn’t seem to notice, and turns to pluck the phone from his grasp.

“Excellent. He can come here and we’ll bring him up to speed this afternoon, then tonight you can talk to twice as many people, and if anyone tries anything again, you’ve got someone in your corner.” Barnaby smiles like the whole world is coming together. “If he’s quick, he might even get to sample my honey-baked salmon.”

\--

He opens the door to Nelson himself, half an hour later. Sarah’s setting the table on the patio, and Barnaby is apparently at a delicate stage with his salad dressing. Pre-John Barnaby, he thought salads were lettuce, cucumber and tomato rather than multi-layer, hour-long-prep affairs. It’s been… an education.

“Oh,” says Nelson. “Hi.”

“Come on in.” He steps back and then leads Nelson through the house. “I hope you’re hungry, Barnaby’s just about to serve up.”

“Oh,” Nelson says again when they hit the disaster area of a kitchen. Ben has found it a common enough reaction to his boss’ off-duty persona - at work he projects enough professionalism that people find their first peek behind the curtain discomforting. Much like school children, unable to believe their teachers have home lives, and instead choose to imagine they pack themselves into the supply cupboard at four pm, to be unpacked again the next day at eight thirty. 

“Nelson,” Barnaby states, loading the constable up with a water jug and some glasses. “We’re eating outside, take those out would you?”

It doesn’t take long for Nelson to relax, the Barnaby home working it’s magic. The food is good, as is the wine, although both he and Nelson limit themselves to half a glass. Sykes provides them all with entertainment when he steals the empty salad bowl and almost gets trapped beneath it. Ben talks a lot - about the case, bringing Barnaby up to speed more than Nelson - and by the time he’s mopping the last of his salad dressing up with fresh bread, Sarah’s looking hopefully at Barnaby for pudding.

“Yes, all right,” he huffs, getting up and collecting empty plates. “I’ll see what I can find.”

They flick through the files over dessert, and Ben slides them all across to Nelson when the conversation dwindles and clouds cover the sun. It’s getting cool to be sitting outside, and they’ll be going back to the club in only six hours or so. They’ve probably stolen enough of Nelson’s weekend.

“Why don’t you get going,” he offers. “I’ll head to the club for half ten again, and wait outside until I see you, then we can go in.”

“Actually… can I park at yours? I’m going to have to drive in, but the cheap car parks will all be closed.”

“Sure,” he agrees, after a moment’s hesitation. “See you at ten.”

\--

There’s a knock on his door about quarter to ten. He’s still messing with his hair, and runs down the stairs to open it. 

It takes a minute to process. It  _ shouldn’t _ \- Nelson’s still in a t-shirt and jeans, and it's not like seeing one of the female constables out and about when suddenly their make-up is perfect and their hair falls around their shoulders. There’s nothing that  _ different _ about him - and yet.

“Have you got a permit?”

“What?”

“Car? Permit? For the street parking?”

Oh right. He gives himself a mental slap and hands over the book, then takes the two minutes while Nelson goes to sort his car out to give himself a severe talking to.

It’s a bit early to head out, but they shouldn’t be drinking alcohol, so he puts the kettle on. “Here,” he says a couple of minutes later, feeling a presence behind him. Nelson accepts the mug. “Sugar in the bowl if you want it.”

Nelson shakes his head, and sips hurriedly at the scorching tea.

He reminds himself this is the first undercover job the kid’s done. And on the one hand he has no character to remember, the role being undercover in name only, but on the other the superior officer who’s lead he’s following got his face bashed in just last night.

“Nervous?” he asks. 

A shrug, and a sheepish smile. “A bit. Stupid right?”

Not stupid at all. Granted, they don’t expect tonight to be dangerous, not really. But things can always go wrong, and any kind of undercover work strips away the protections they usually draw around themselves as police officers. “No.”

Nelson blows on the top of his tea. “Except I’ve been there multiple times before, and all we’re doing is talking to people. Like I’ve also done before. You go in there and you’re acting a character, but me?” He takes another sip, and switches the mug into a two-handed grip. 

“Not as much of a character as you think.”

He… hadn’t exactly meant to say that. But it has wiped some of the frown from Nelson’s brow, so he can’t be too upset. 

“What do you mean?”

In for a penny, as his gran would say. He leads them over to the sofa and sits down. Nelson kicked his shoes off at the door, and now he takes the other end of the sofa, drawing his long legs underneath himself. “I haven’t been very honest with you. With anyone at work, really.” He finds himself studying the stitching of the sofa arm and forces himself to look up. “I’m gay. I just don’t talk about it much.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not completely… I don’t know, repressed, closeted. My family knows, some friends. But I keep it quiet at work.”

“Which is why Barnaby sent you to me.”

He can’t help a quiet chuckle. “Sort of. I kind of bungled the news I was going undercover in a gay club, and it was either pretend to be clueless, come out, or let him think I was a homophobic asshole.”

Nelson laughs. “What did you  _ say _ ?”

“Nothing, just… nothing.” They don’t need to go into it. “But yeah, he sent me to you.” He switches his attention from blue eyes back to his tea. 

“Oh, well. I’m glad. And thanks for saying. I won’t - obviously, I won’t tell anyone, it won’t go any further.”

“Thanks.” He’s taking this remarkably well. “And sorry, for lying to you. For not saying sooner, I mean if I could trust anyone-”

A hand lands briefly on his arm, stopping him. “It’s okay. You’ve nothing to apologise for.”

\--

They get to the club and split up; he’s not sure if Nelson is glad to see the back of him, despite how understanding he’d been. The walk over had been quiet, his stomach roiling with a strange mix of liberation and desperate tension, like he’s suddenly holding his heart on the outside and everyone can see. 

Still, back to the case. Splitting up they can cover more ground, and unless they stick right next to each other they’d have little opportunity to act as proper back up anyway, given the dark and the crowd. 

It’s beginning to feel like this is his life now, and he’s not exactly enjoying the flashback to his early twenties. He shoves his way to the front of the bar and grudgingly orders another lime and soda. He’s definitely claiming expenses when he gets back to the day job, despite the lack of receipts.

It must be an hour later when he looks up from his latest conversation to find Nelson barreling into him. He’d think him drunk, except he’s been staking out the bar and he saw Nelson’s play-acting the other night. He catches him anyway. 

“Are you alright?”

Nelson leans close. There’s an intimacy to it, even though it’s a position he’s been in with four other men tonight - the music is thumping, making conversation tricky. “Yeah, fine,” he laughs into his ear. “Just, you’re the friend making a bad decision. You done here?”

He is, so he lets Nelson drag him away. Until he sees a familiar face, and stops him with a hand tight around his arm. “The brother,” he hisses at Nelson’s questioning look. “I interviewed him - we didn’t think he’d be back, not this soon.”

“The second victim,” Nelson says, low enough to be lost under the music. He snakes an arm around Ben until it rests, lightly, on his waist. “Come on, then.”

That’s when he realises where he’s accidentally taken them.

“No.” He remains firm, and refuses to think of it as digging his heels in. “I told you I don’t dance.”

They’re right on the edge of the dancefloor, close enough for Nelson to pretend they’re there, if he wanted to push the issue. He doesn’t, and Ben’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. He leans close again, and this will do - this hides his face. He tries to peer over a shoulder, but the brother is still there.

“That wasn’t just for show?”

“What?”

“You know; straight men can’t dance.”

The bodies around them move seamlessly. It’s the relaxed, anything goes style that he’s never been able to get on board with. He likes cricket, with its pages of rules, and police work, where he might not get caught up in procedure thanks to the mentors he’s had, but he can’t deny he likes the structure of it all. “I can handle a foxtrot, and that’s about it.”

He’s rewarded with an amused smile, and a little shake of the head. “Right, because on your next birthday, you’re what? Eighty five?”

“Eighty seven.”

Nelson snaps his fingers. “My mistake. Bad friend, must do better.”

Friend. That sounds… nice. But the club lights also pick up the white of Nelson’s teeth when he smiles, and the way they’re almost pressed together from chest to knee reminds him he’d really quite like to lick along them, pulling Nelson down to his level and watching those eyes go wide.

Ahem.

He checks back over Nelson’s shoulder. The brother is gone, but there’s the distinct feel of someone watching him. It prickles along his copper senses, and it’s nothing like the vibe he picked up from the brother during their interview. This is darker, this is… wary. But not overtly threatening. 

He checks as subtly as he can, lets his hands rest on Nelson’s sides but he barely feels the cotton warmed by body heat - he feels like a lion might, watched by prey. He thinks… he might have been rumbled.

“All clear on the brother. And I’m getting nowhere with the interviews.”

“Me neither.”

“But there’s something… ”

“Mmm?”

“If he’s here, that’s worrying. I think someone knows who I am.”

“Oh.”

“They won’t let me see anything.”

“No.”

If that’s the case, then he has no choice. He needs to distance himself from Nelson, give one of them a chance at salvaging a useful night out of this. He reaches up and threads his fingers in Nelson’s hair, draws him down - and Nelson just  _ bends  _ like he’s actually going to let him do it, let him draw them into a kiss and - “push me off!” he hisses quickly.

Light dawns, and Nelson twists from his grasp. 

“Turn me down.”

His words disappear in the beat of a new song, but he can read them on Nelson’s face - at least he hopes that’s what’s happened, he hopes he hasn’t just pushed boundaries enough for a disciplinary to land on his desk on Monday morning - and Nelson sneers. It looks wrong; out of place. 

He doesn’t catch what Nelson says, but the body language is clear enough, as is the way he disappears into the crowd. He watches him go, then pushes his way out to the smoking area. He needs some air.

\--

“Got a light?” 

He’s patting himself down before realising - no, of course he doesn't. It’s almost five years since he gave up smoking, long enough that he can stand here and not immediately try and bum a fag off one of the groups. Not long enough, it seems, to have anything but an instinctive reaction to that question.

“Sorry,” he says, turning sheepishly. “I actually…” It’s the bouncer from last night. “Gave up.”

The bouncer chuckles, and asks the guy on his other side before turning and leaning against the wall of the club. Ben mirrors him, coolness from the brick seeping through his shirt. “On my break,” he explains. “You like to live dangerously, don’t you?”

“Hmm?”

“Ex-smoker, hanging out here?”

“Oh. Well, it’s been five years.”

The bouncer hums, and takes a long drag. He turns his head away to let the smoke out though, and the careful consideration of the gesture makes Ben smile. 

“Congratulations. Can’t imagine it myself. Take the nicotine and tar from my lungs and they’d - I don’t know. Collapse.” He says it with a sideways grin, like it’s all good fun, but Ben’s heard that kind of talk before. Someone who wants to quit, but doesn’t think they’re up to it. Won’t try so they can’t fail. He lets it go. “That’s alright?”

“What?”

He switches the cigarette to his other hand, and raises his finger to point at Ben’s bruise. “Didn’t think we’d see you back so soon.”

“Oh, I’ve had worse.”

“Not having the best run of luck though, are you?”

The words should sting, but it’s said in such a commiserating tone that he can’t find it in himself to argue. “Not exactly. You have many no hopers who turn up three nights on the trot?”

“Oh many. And I get to know a lot of them. Too many start getting a bit impatient, if you catch my drift.”

“Mmm.”

“You’re not one of them.”

“No?”

The bouncer has smoked his cigarette down now, and drops it to grind under his foot. He doesn’t move though, so Ben stays put too. Perhaps this should have been his strategy from the start anyway, building a rapport with the staff. It’s got to be better than his scattergun ‘on the pull’ approach, getting them nowhere.

“Nah. You get a feel for people in this job.” He looks sideways at Ben. “Psychologists might have their fancy couches or whatever, but if you want real human behaviour -” he grins, “get them drunk first.” He laughs. “That pretty one, just before you came out here.”

Nelson. “Yeah?”

“He turn you down too?”

“Is this how this is going to be, you reliving my lowlights reel?” He sighs. “Yeah. Shooting out of my league with that one I guess, but if you don’t give it a go…” He shrugs. “Why? Are you interested?” 

“Me?” He shakes his head roughly. “No, the hen parties are more my scene. And their guard is always a little down in a place like this.”

Ugh. “I’m Ben, by the way. And I’m not sure I ever actually thanked you for pouring me into a taxi last night.”

“Miles.” The bouncer takes and shakes his hand, then pushes off from the wall. “And I should get back my post before the boss spends the rest of the night making pointed comments about labour laws and break allowances.”

Miles. See, he’s read Barnaby’s transcripts of the interviews, and he’s memorised the staff pages and photographs. He knows the bartenders on duty tonight are Tamal, Spencer and Ryan and that the coat-check lady is Hayley. And now that his brain hasn’t been recently rattled, he knows the bouncer isn’t Miles at all. He’s Tyrone Flood.

There are other possibilities. He might just dislike his name - but he’s already admitted he prefers women, so he’s not trying to get his leg over with a cooler sounding name. Occam’s razor. It doesn't often apply in Midsomer, but this might just be one of those times when the simplest explanation is the right one.

Flood is caught up in all this. Somehow. But was he the one who was keeping a watch on him earlier? It seems likely, if he caught the scene with Nelson. And only those up to no good would be that keen to keep tabs on him.

He heads inside, and over to the bar - he needs to find Nelson, and the bar is a good bet given he’ll still be trying to talk to people. Except by the time he reaches the front of the crowd, he’s pretty sure he’s not in the crush. 

“Oh, hey - Ben, right?”

He looks up at Tamal. The bartender slides a glass of whiskey across the booze-splashed surface.

“With compliments of the house. It’s a good one,” he gestures over his shoulder at a bottle on the top shelf and then nods out at the club. “He said you were having a bad run.”

He turns around to find Tyrone back at his post, but even across the busy floor their eyes meet. Tyrone raises a hand in acknowledgment.

Definitely him.

“I don’t drink.”

Tamal shrugs. “Then don’t drink it.” He turns to the next clamouring customer. “Yes, what can I get you?”

He takes the glass and turns with a smile and a little toast, because who - after having the run he’s having - would turn down a free forty five year old whiskey? A copper on the case, that’s who, and that’s who he absolutely needs not to be right now, even if he’s ninety per cent sure his cover’s already blown.

He needs to find Nelson. He takes the drink and walks with it, as unusual as that is, because Nelson might be at the second bar round the corner. But he doesn’t appear to be, and neither - from what he can tell - is he on the dancefloor. He could be leaning against any one of the dark walls, a whispered conversation with someone who might know something. He could be getting some air, like Ben was, or lighting up and bonding with some smokers. He might even just have popped to the loo, and Ben will catch sight of him any second.

He tries to look natural, unconcerned, like he’s merely taking a breather and scanning for his next opportunity. But the longer the music drums and the crowd shifts and there’s still no sign of the constable in his care…

He curses himself for not setting up regular check ins. Nelson will be  _ fine _ , he’s sure, he’s a capable copper and he knows this place. But he’s also undercover for the first time, and if he was here, he’d be turning heads because he’s handsome and tall and approachable, and absolutely the kind of person unable to fly below the radar in a place like this.

No heads are turning.

He pulls out his phone and dials; it’s an off-chance, and he tells himself not to panic when it goes unanswered. No one could hear their phone in here, and the thumping music makes the vibrations useless too. He darts off a quick text - beware the bouncer - and returns it to his pocket.

They know. Somehow, whoever is doing this knows he’s a cop. And Tyrone Flood is tied up in it, but he’s got a decent alibi thanks to his job. But how do they know he’s police? He hasn’t stepped foot in here in years, and he knows for a fact it’s changed hands since. Someone might have just seen him, recognised him, but that seems a pretty slim possibility - he’s the kind of person that fades in the mind into a vague approximation of brown hair and suit and not much else. Out of context… it’s unlikely.

He’s not slipped up. Closest he came was last night, but even then the toe-rag pickpocket had got away, and he hadn’t pulled any police issue defensive moves, just an awkward reflex and - 

Wait. The ride home. The taxi hadn’t had a card beeper, and he’d gone rooting for spare coins before the driver told him the club took care of it. His change wallet. Where he’d stashed his warrant card so no one at the club got a flash of it.

The  _ taxi driver _ must be in on it too. And that makes sense, because the victims were all linked to the club but they weren’t found here, they were moved, dumped, and that means transport. Who would look twice at a drunken clubgoer bundled into a taxi by a bouncer?

Maybe… maybe he was meant to be on that list, until that warrant card said he’d be too much trouble. Maybe he wasn’t, and it’s just a coincidence that blew his cover and ensured he’d get nowhere tonight. 

He texts the station for back up - he can’t risk being overheard, not if this is a multi-person effort, there might be even more people involved - and heads to the doors. He can pretend to want to chat to ‘Miles’. No, wait. They wouldn’t do it out front, not if they’ve actually got Nelson, because he’d take some shifting - he’s not drunk and pliant, his defenses aren’t down. 

He slips through a door hidden by a curtain. It’s a storage area for cleaning supplies, but he remembers the building plan and it’s also a corridor into the club’s backrooms. The offices are back here, and the staff toilets and fridges where they store the expensive champagne. He ducks around a corner when a door flings open and Tamal emerges, wiping his hands on his jeans and ducking back out front.

If Tyrone is meant to be keeping an eye on him, he’s going to have noticed Ben’s disappearance by now. He scurries quickly along, avoiding the offices and occasional murmur of voices, until - there. The back door. The one that leads to a sheltered alleyway the club uses for deliveries. There could be anything on the other side of that door.

There could be nothing, and that’s almost scarier. If he’s too late. If they really do have Nelson, and they’ve gone already. Because they haven’t worked out the pattern of the drop sites - if they’ve left, then he has no idea where to look.

He twists the handle.

It’s like one of those Renaissance painting jokes. Nelson, an eye bloodied to match his own, arms tied behind his back but still pissed, still  _ fighting _ the hold of - that damned pickpocket Joe, and his quick to violence boyfriend. 

He wrestles the boyfriend first, as the bigger problem, but only succeeds in getting him to drop Nelson and elbow Ben in the gut instead. 

The sound of sirens is a godsend.

\--

It’s just gone four. The sky is beginning to lighten, although the streets will be deserted for a while yet, quiet with Sunday morning sleepiness. They’re both still woozy and half-drunk with adrenaline, statements given and injuries patched up and all four of the perpetrators - Tyrone, Joe, Max and Alec - packed up into the cells. School friends, it turned out. Tied together a little too tightly and twisted, against two ex-lovers and the kindly bartender who’d tried to intervene. All taken down before their time.

He claps a hand on Nelson’s shoulder; possibly slightly too hard by the way he starts at the contact. Or maybe he was half-asleep. “Good job, tonight.”

Nelson laughs; a gut punch of relief making the humour sharper, brighter. “Is your job always like this?”

He thinks of the bubble-brightness of solving a case, catching the killer, and shrugs. Yeah. Sort of. Nelson smiles, and it grows, feeling too real and too much, until he’s just grinning across at him.

“I think I like it.”

God, he’s created some kind of adrenaline junkie. It’ll wear off properly; for now they’re both still riding the high, although exhaustion is tickling him, waiting for it’s chance to pounce. He’s just glad Nelson’s okay. He can deal with any wild streak - if it happens to actually appear - when they’re both able to stand without wobbling.

“Come on. I need some sleep.”

His knees pop as he gets up, and he rubs a hand over his face. He drags Nelson up with him; he almost seems like he’d be happy to stay, bedding down in an office corner or taking one of the cells. The idea is suddenly, monumentally, tempting as a wave of tiredness crashes over him. But no. They’ll both prefer to wake up in their own beds with spines that haven’t fused with police-issue cots.

He tracks down a uniformed officer who agrees to run them out to his house, where Nelson left his car, and spends the short drive slumped in the passenger seat fighting to keep his eyes open.

“Sir,” says the officer, as he finishes his directions and she pulls up in front of his door. 

“Thanks. Now take Nelson-”

“My car’s here.”

He double-takes; he’d thought Nelson had dropped off in the backseat. As it is, he twitches, rouses himself, and springs from the car in a good impression of someone who’s just had a full eight hours, rather than eight minutes. He gets out too, but before he can bully his tired brain into a solid argument, the officer has driven away.

“You can’t drive home, I’m barely upright. You’ll nod off and end up in a ditch.”

“But if I went home with her,” he hooks a thumb back at the departed squad car, “I’d have no way of getting back to my car.”

“Fine.” He roots in his pocket, coming up with his house keys. “But you’re not driving home tonight. You can get a few hours here first.”

He fumbles with the lock, jimmying the door until it catches and opens. This is probably a bad idea. But letting Nelson drive off, he’s pretty sure, would be a worse one. He’s a promising detective, the last thing he needs is a charge of reckless endangerment.

He digs out a spare towel and some sweats, and thanks the gods that he keeps the spare room made up because he couldn't face changing sheets right now. The room is small; small enough that to get in bed you have to sidle sideways between it and the wall, and the sloped ceiling eaves will mean Nelson is pretty much bent double whenever he’s not lying down. But it’s a proper bed, which he’s hoping is tempting enough that Nelson sees the sense in staying. He could probably take his keys off him by force, but he’s not sure, after the few days he’s just had, that he would trust himself to leave it at a bit of light grappling for possession.

God. Okay, just - just go to bed.

He pushes Nelson one way, and goes the other himself, getting ready for bed. But something about having another under his roof - so unusual - keeps his eyes open as his head hits the pillow. He can hear soft sounds, shuffling about, a muffled groan and curse that might have been uttered when a shin met a bedpost, or a head hit the ceiling.

Even when the noises stop, his heart beats a strong, insistent rhythm. It’s fight or flight - it’s neither, he knows, it’s the other f word he’s not even going to consider - but it’s the same result. A heady thrumming in his veins until he’s as awake as if he’d been downing espressos. Primed for each tiny sound, the scrape of a cat nosing around a dustbin lid sends a jolt through his muscles.

This is ridiculous.

He peels back the covers and sneaks downstairs. He roots through the cupboard and finds the rum he’d stashed back last night. This is getting to be a bad habit. But he grabs a glass this time, wary of the other presence in the flat, the slight, unlikely happenstance that might bring Nelson downstairs too, catch him in the act - 

No.

Shut up.

He pours a substantial measure of liquor, and gulps two quick mouthfuls before topping it up and setting the bottle on the side table.

One drink. He’ll have this, let his heart rate settle and his imagination dull with the alcohol, and then he’ll head back up to bed. Tomorrow is a new day, this case is all tied up, and -

“Can I have some of that?”

Nelson. He looks up; the other man looks unfairly good in the same t-shirt as earlier and borrowed sweats. He really shouldn’t - the bruising is coming out on his eye, and there’s a graze along one cheekbone where he’d been shoved into a wall. He looks back down at his glass, and flattens his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The alcohol is hitting quickly, drunkenness exacerbated by the exhaustion.

“Er, sorry. I’ll just-”

“No!” He waves a hand awkwardly. “Sorry, just - you know. Not firing on all cylinders. Glasses are in the kitchen.”

Nelson shrugs and folds himself down on the other side of the sofa. “This’ll do,” he says softly, taking the glass from Ben’s lax grip and downing what’s left. He scrunches his nose up at the taste, and when his face smooths out again, he realises he’s staring. Nelson did that before, he realises. Steal his glass. If asked about it, objectively, he’d probably disparage the action, but somehow here - in practice - it speaks of an easy closeness he’s not shared with anyone in a long time. 

“Don’t like rum?”

“Mmm.” He hands the glass back, and Ben tops it up again, taking his own small mouthful but savouring it this time. He swallows, and looks up to find Nelson looking back. “Not my favourite, but it’s okay,” he says, tilting his head until it rests on the sofa back.

He could have this. He’s pretty sure he’s sending out signals, and now they’ve got all the tangled half-truths sorted out, Nelson must know what he’s sending back isn’t innocent, not anymore. They’re both tired, and he’s tiptoeing towards tipsy, but the case is over. He’s no more Nelson’s boss than DI Carlton is his. 

“Nelson.”

“Charlie.”

Right. “Charlie-”

He’s not sure which of them moves first, or if it’s the same form of synchronisation that made them work well together in the club. Either way, the first brush of lips is tentative, soft, and brief. The second hits harder, looser. He tangles his hand in Nelson’s hair, cradling his head, pulling him closer. He tastes of rum, and the remnants of toothpaste. It makes it taste like a relationship kiss, and for a moment he allows himself to imagine - after breakfast, have a good day kisses. Good night, please don’t start anything, I have to be up early kisses. Oh, go on then kisses.

It could - he likes Nelson. Charlie. He could see him hanging around.

“No, wait, sorry-” a hand on his chest stops him, pushing him lightly back. The fingertips stroke the fabric of his t-shirt, lessening the sting. 

“What?”

“We’re both too old to be staying up all night,” Nelson says. 

It makes him laugh quietly - a giggle that’s more than a little punch drunk. Daylight is starting to bleed around the corners of his curtains, an insistent day beginning before either of them have had a night. 

“It’s literally too late for that.”

Nelson leans close, close enough that if he tilted his head just a little, they’d both feel the scrape of stubble against their skin. When he speaks, it’s soft; breathed out as little puffs against his neck. “Let’s not do something we might regret, yeah?”   
  
He wouldn’t regret it. He’s not really built that way, never gets this far unless he’s sure it’s what he wants. But he knows what Nelson means. He sits back, uncurling himself from around Nelson’s body. “You sure?”

Nelson’s smile is resigned. “I’m just… too tired for this conversation. Sorry. And thanks.”

Ben watches as he staggers to his feet and disappears upstairs. Somehow, through it all, he’s still holding the glass of liquor. He swirls the liquid round once, twice, then abandons it on the table. 

Well then.

###  Sunday

He’s not surprised to walk down stairs in the morning and find the glass from last night tidied away. He is a little surprised that Nelson is still perched on a breakfast bar stool, hunched over a mug of instant coffee.

“No run today?”

Nelson smiles wearily. “You’re a bad influence on me.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He nods, which he knows is weird, and edges past to get to the kettle. “Refill?”

“No, I’m good.”

Christ. This has all the awkwardness of a morning after with none of the benefits of a night before. “Look-” he starts, but is immediately cut off. Nelson snaps his mouth shut, and waves at him to go on. “I was just going to say sorry again. For lying.”

“Oh. No, no need. I get it man, don’t worry.”

He turns away and busies himself with a mug, coffee granules, spoon. Nelson is in the way of the fridge and he idly thinks about taking it black before edging his way around and liberating the milk.

Maybe he should apologise for the kiss. It wasn’t exactly all his fault, it takes two to tango and all that, but he threw them into that situation with his insistence Nelson shouldn’t drive. He’s the senior officer. They were both tired and more than a little loopy, and the rum wasn’t enough to get either of them drunk but he provided it when he maybe shouldn’t have, then it was Nelson’s first undercover job so he was coming out of that on top of everything else. Maybe… maybe he read signals that weren’t really there. Tipped the two of them into something that Nelson felt he couldn’t say no to. 

No. That’s rubbish, it was Nelson who stopped it.

Maybe that’s the cause of the awkwardness. Nelson just doesn’t want it, not in the light of day.

“I… we don’t know each other that well. But you seem like a great guy-”

Oh god, here comes the let down speech. 

“-and I think if we got to know each other… that’d be dangerous.”

Dangerous?

“Because,” Nelson says meaningfully, “I think we’d get on really well. I think there’s a strong possibility I’d want more from this than a one-off, or even a casual… whatever.” He looks at his hands, and shrugs. “I don’t do casual well. But you’re not out at work-”

“I could come out.”

“Ben.” 

It’s the first time he’s used his name. It feels renewed, coming from his mouth; one small syllable, boring, he’s always thought, although plenty of people have boring names - John, Tom, Kate. Charlie, though, that’s just different enough, with a pleasing curl to it. 

“That’s really sweet, but-”

“No, I mean - I always meant to do it. If there was a reason to.” He can’t believe he’s said that. The last time he was so open, so blatant, Emma Chambers had a motorcycle helmet already swinging from one hand, and a new boyfriend waiting with the engine running at the end of his Gran’s drive. He’d wanted to grab her by the other, tug her back inside and hold her close. It’d hurt enough that he’d taken a while to realise she was his best friend, not his girlfriend, despite what they called it. That what she did was for the best, even if it left him lonely and missing her.

This is only the second time he’s ever properly wanted to hold on to someone. He’d feel more embarrassed, it’s way too soon, except Nelson - Charlie - doesn’t want casual. He wants more. The thought of it… it’s like the anticipation before batting in cricket, on edge, but the bowler has let go and you just  _ know _ \- this will be the one. The hit that wins the match.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

Wait. 

“What?”

“Not for me.”

“What?” he repeats.

“What happens the first time… I don’t know, someone looks at you oddly, or says something weird?”

A spark of irritation. “I’ve been around homophobia before, I can deal with-”

“I just.” Nelson sighs, looking more despondent than he thought was possible. A minute ago he thought this was a thing, he thought they were going somewhere - and he’s not quite sure how it’s got away from him. “I know you can,” Nelson says calmly. “But you know it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. Maybe you’d be passed over for something, maybe your invite to a charity cricket game would be lost.” He smiles sadly. “If you do it for me… I know you won’t blame me. But there might be a thought. That it was easier before. And it’s only happening now, because…”

He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “I wouldn’t.”

“Not consciously.”

That’s the rub, isn’t it? Because he doesn’t know that he wouldn’t think that. Laid out so starkly, it seems almost inevitable that he could - just flashes, involuntary moments - but he wonders if those are the kind of insidious feelings that ruin relationships. If he’d wake up six months down the line and look across at Nelson and resent him for the things he replaced. He can’t imagine it. 

No, he doesn’t want to imagine it. That’s not quite the same.

He feels a touch on his arm, and looks up to catch a soft kiss dropped on the corner of his mouth. Nelson is gone, over by the door before he can think to react, to try and turn it into something more. 

But that would be unfair. Because Nelson doesn’t want to be a secret, and he doesn’t want to be a catalyst. There’s not really an option three.

“See you around, Ben Jones.”

The door closing feels like an ending.

###  Three Months Later

He grabs a beer at the bar and finds a patch of free wall to lean against. DCI Larkin is probably one of the most popular senior coppers at the station, and most of the people off-duty have turned out for his retirement. The pub is rammed, even though it’s late on a wet Tuesday evening.

There’s a buffet in one corner, and a cake courtesy of his department, with the usual badly scrawled message picked out in police-blue icing. He takes a swig of beer and says hello to a few people as they pass. He could go sit with Barnaby, over in the corner, with some of the other DCIs. Or Gail, who’s just walked in, or Trevor and Annie from the tech department. 

But then his scan of the room stops. It’s dark and already getting crowded, but that’s Nelson sprawled in a chair, in the same t-shirt he wore at the club. It’s been three months since that Sunday morning, and he still wakes up some days with the dream-real brush of lips against his. Like some kind of homing beacon, he finds himself pushing through people until he comes to a stop in front of him.

“Hi.”

Not an original opening, perhaps, but Nelson looks up and recognition blooms like summer, ending in a happy grin. “Hello. You want to sit?”

He takes the proffered chair, and fiddles with his glass. He takes a swig for something to do. “I heard you made sergeant. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

His tone is friendly but it’s not easy, and he struggles for what to say next. He wonders if Nelson knows that he’s - taken steps - towards coming out. Not  _ for  _ Nelson - he hadn't done it with any expectation, and to just say it now feels manipulative. But it had started to seem a bit ridiculous that he’d never told Barnaby and Sarah, and then he was having lunch with Gail one day and it just slipped out. He told a couple of guys he hangs out with from the cricket team, but he and Nelson run in such different circles he’s just - not sure. That it would have got back to him. Turns out people aren't always the tireless gossipers he thought they were.

“You deserve it,” he says finally, sounding a bit stilted and reserved. “I know we only worked together once, but… it was obvious. That you should be promoted.”

He shuts up, wondering if he should have brought it up at all. Nelson  _ had  _ worked well on that case. He’d gone above and beyond what was needed of him, pulled out all the stops on a moment's notice. But he can’t quite think back to those few days without his mind flashing on that final evening, the kiss on his sofa that’s been replayed and messed up in his mind because he was kind of out of it and he doesn’t know any more how much of it was real and how much is embellishment, his memory playing tricks. 

“Thanks,” Nelson says again, and finishes his beer. That’s that, then. The big chance blown. It was stupid, anyway, to think that Nelson might still be interested - might even still be available - when he must have potential dates lining up round the block. “Don’t go anywhere, I’m gonna get another of these. You good?”

His pint glass is still mostly full, so he just nods.

“So how about you?” Nelson asks when he returns. “How have you been?” The room has filled up even more, people talking loudly to hear each other over the next group of celebrators. Nelson pulls his chair a fraction closer.

“I’m… actually I’m moving on.”

“What? Away?”

“No, not away but… I passed my inspectors. Going to be moving across to vice.”

Nelson grins at that, genuinely happy at good news for someone he barely knows. “Congratulations in return then! So you’re leaving Barnaby? I’m surprised I hadn’t heard that the dream team is splitting up.”

“Well it’s not been announced yet, they’ll say something on Monday. But you should throw your hat in the ring for his sergeant. If you’re still gunning for my job, that is.”

Nelson double takes. “I - well, yeah. You remember that? You were half asleep.”

“Barnaby liked you, you’ve got a good shot.” And I’ll put in a good word, he adds silently. Because Nelson really does deserve it, but also he likes Nelson and he’s felt more than lucky to have two Barnabys as his inspectors. He wouldn't like to disparage his colleagues, but he knows there are those out there who push paper and spend their days counting time, and to work for one of them would be soul destroying.

“I’m a bit green aren’t I? For murders?”

Ben shrugs. “It’s a different Barnaby, but I was technically a PC when I moved across.”

“Show off.”

“It’s all about gumption, some of us have it.”

Nelson groans amusedly and leans back in his chair. His posture is loose and relaxed, and Ben really, really wants to slide his hands up underneath his t-shirt. Three months has not, it seems, dulled any of the attraction. He clinks his glass against Nelson’s instead in a belated cheers. 

“You’ll learn,” he promises.

“If you use the word whippersnapper,” Nelson warns, “I will not be held responsible for my actions. You’ve got eight years on me, max.”

That sounds like a challenge - besides, it’s probably more like ten, twelve - but some of the other DCs from robbery join their table so he shrugs and lets it go. Soon everyone is talking over each other with stories of the past week and the odd titbit of office politics. He should feel like an interloper in their midst - an Inspector in Sergeant’s stripes - but Gail takes the seat next to him and Nelson is on his other side and - he just doesn’t. 

He catches Barnaby’s eye across the room, and raises his glass in a toast.

###  The Day After That

“God, I’m an idiot,” Charlie pants, starfishing on the bed. Ben pushes an errant forearm out his face, then tucks it under his head as a pillow.

“Huh?”

“We could have been doing that for months. And I said  _ no? _ ”

He laughs, twisting until he can catch Charlie’s gaze. “You did. And I’m glad you did.” Charlie raises one eyebrow. “Not at the time. Maybe not even last week. But you were right, I wasn’t in the right place. You gurued me into the best path, my selfless LGBT rep-”

Charlie waves his other hand, shutting Ben up by loosely covering his lips with his palm. “ _ Too  _ selfless,  _ Jesus _ . I think you broke me.”

“Call me Ben.”

Charlie groans. “You were right, you are ancient. And your jokes are even older than you are.”

“Hmm,” he kisses the palm before drawing it away. “You were very selfless. Very altruistic.” He walks his fingers up over Charlie’s abdomen, smiling when the muscles twitch. 

“Maybe you could make it up to me.”

“Maybe I could.”

“Breakfast in bed-”

“What, at half five before your run? No chance.” He rolls over, pinning Charlie to the bed. “Besides, I was thinking of something a little more... exciting.”

“You’re finally going to let Gail put eyeliner on you? Because I’ve got to admit, after she was going on about it last night - I’m intrigued. She should get drunk more often.”

He trails his hand down, ghosting over Charlie’s hip, then thigh, then back up to his stomach. Everywhere but where he wants it most, although the short laugh he huffs out says he doesn’t really mind. “Dream on. She’s getting nowhere near me with that torture instrument. No. A little more… immediate.”

“Again? Really?”

He sucks a kiss into his collarbone. “Thought I could get a  _ head  _ start on making it up to you.”

Charlie wriggles under his lips, releasing a muffled cross between a groan and a snort. “Give it up with the terrible jokes. And you do realise we only just-”

“I thought you were the young one here. Can’t keep up?”

“Oh, I can keep up.”

“Yeah?” 

He props himself up on his elbows, catching Charlie’s gaze. When he thinks of all the blocks that had to fall into place to land them here, now, he can’t believe it. For one, he’s vaguely grateful for a triple murder, which is a secret he’ll have to take to the grave. But fall into place they did, like the world wanted to align enough to tip DC - now DS - Charlie Nelson into his bed and convince him to stay there. 

He must have been very good in a previous life. 

“Prove it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who made it down to this note! I know this is an odd little story, but it somehow ate my brain and I had to write it out, even though I thought there was a good chance the audience would just be me, myself and I. If you got this far, I assume you must have at least half-way liked it too, so I'm glad! :D


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